He patted the hand on his sleeve. "To be sure, it's not surprising the poor little thing should be so marked; for, when I lay in the women-felons' ward in Newgate, where he first saw the light, or at least such light as ever finds entrance into that gloomy place, I had nothing, whether sleeping or waking, but halters, and gibbets, and coffins, and such like horrible visions, for ever dancing round me! And then, you know, Sir—but, perhaps, you don't know that little Jack was born, a month before his time, on the very day his poor father suffered. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. "Lean on me," said Jack. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. Their flitting hands were always touching. It must have cut him. B.
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